


Everything of Importance

by The Key To Imagine (whiskeywit)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 13:09:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10438416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywit/pseuds/The%20Key%20To%20Imagine
Summary: Title: Everything of ImportanceRating: PG-13Word count: 790A/N: I'm warning you – it's sad. Eh, really sad I suppose.





	

Everything of Importance  
  
  
The rain is ticking against the window, a monotonous sound that has been the soundtrack of his afternoon, while he has been watching the drops run down on the other side of the window, tracing paths of wet, chasing one another like the salty tears that are slowly falling on his side of the glass. He sees his reflection in the window when he changes his focus from the outside world to the small space of his room and he is startled by the look in his eyes – reading his own pains and sorrows in the light brown colour, colour that has washed out it seems, not only because his reflection looks faint in general but also because of the emotions that are hiding within his body, trying to break free.   
  
His guitar is laying in a corner of his room, and the chords and the soothing sounds of music have been pressed to a corner of his mind, because he doesn't want to think about happiness right now, not now when everything might as well have been shattered across the world, broken into a thousand pieces or more. Including the piece of wood in which he had tried to find some hope in earlier today, but hadn't found it. It seemed to grow increasingly harder anyway – to find the four letter words he longed for most; the hope, the love, and the fame he wanted, all three badly but the middle of the three most of all.  
  
And outside the sun is starting to set, he sees the last light slowly fade away, grow fragile in its strength, far behind the houses he sees across the street, and feels the last bits of hope he may have been feeling fall in a deep, black, depth he's feeling inside, a pool with dark thoughts that have been haunting him for days now, but at least then there was the sun, and friends, maybe, and most of all – the strength to suppress and avoid the thoughts he didn't want to think. Now there was nothing, and his life felt like a huge gaping hole, and he was ready to fall into it. Even the pain he felt is gone now, the pain from biting his lip so long and so hard he tasted the metallic of blood, and he thinks he still does but he can't be sure, and the pain from hitting the walls over and over again, repeating his actions until his knuckles were blue and numb, and he fell down to the floor in exhaustion, in a mess of feelings and numbness and the endless stream of tears.  
  
His duvets are warm over his legs, but this too he can hardly feel, and he has curled up his hands in the soft of the cloth, as he leans against the window. Because he's still tired now, and feeling weary and fed up with everything – with the feelings he's going through but also with the rain that's making the world look so dead, while there are no people in the street, except for someone he thinks to see further down the street. And the tears – he still can't stop them, and it feels comfortable when he presses his feverishly warm face, puffy because of the crying and his eyes burning behind his glasses, against the window. There is another comfort he finds in moving his fingers, from tense to relaxed, because the pain is starting to come back as his breathing calms down, and along with the pain there comes the feeling of being alive.  
  
He closes his eyes, only to give them some rest and focus on the cold of the window against his face, the contrast of the warmth wrapped around his body, to focus on how there finally seems to be flowing a bit of the feelings back into his body.   
  
And when he opens them again, he sees the figure has come closer, practically standing in front of the house, and when the boy – it's pretty obvious from the clothes he is wearing – looks up, John can see it's Paul, and with that he can feel the warm stir of something in his stomach – the hope that comes back again, along with Paul who comes to visit him, even in this weather, even without an umbrella.   
  
And it's not because of the music – but because of someone who, in John's eyes, is the personification of music. The alive example of what music should be – a honey sweet voice, wrapped in leather and jeans, the life that radiates off him, and the rock 'n roll melodies John can hear in his mind when he sees Paul.


End file.
